Braver
by whatswiththemustache
Summary: 'If I ever get out of here, Q... know that if I'm braver, it's 'cause I learned it from you.' ...This time, he doesn't need words.


There's no door, this time. No clear moment between _here -_ memory, the cottage, quiet and empty and false - and _there. _Last time, _there _was bright and unsteady and rushed; his limbs reluctant, his reality off-balance. Being in control of his own body again had been strange, and words kept spilling out of him too fast, too soon - not enough time to explain, to take every second in between and make it _mean _something. Not enough time - never enough.

Last time had proven that he'd spent too long regretting. And after that moment - so short, too short - he'd spent another eternity, trapped in this mind prison, regretting again. Because - what if he hadn't been clear enough? What if Quentin didn't get it, didn't believe what Eliot was trying to tell him?

_Who gets proof of concept like that? Peaches and plums, motherfucker. I'm alive in here._

They weren't the worst words to have chosen. But they weren't what he'd wanted to say, either.

Why the fuck hadn't he just said _I'm sorry and I love you, we do work and I'm an idiot, I didn't mean what I said, I fucking love you_ \- why hadn't he said _that_?

Too late. There was always time to regret, though - this place was practically built for that. There was all the time in the world to just exist, to remember, to think of all the words he could have said but didn't. It was almost funny - because he was Eliot. Eliot, who could sound eloquent under the influence of half a dozen substances, drop triple-innuendos with barely a thought, banter dramatically and flamboyantly with Margo for hours - and yet, somehow, there were still _these _moments. Moments when he couldn't for the life of him say the words that needed to be said - and more often than not, said something completely opposite to what he really felt.

Moments that he ended up regretting for the rest of his life. But last time, _there_, that moment - he could only hope that he wouldn't regret it.

The look on Quentin's face, last time, in that moment just before reality slipped away from him, in the seconds before he lost his grip on his own body again - _that _look gave him just enough hope to think that he might not.

For the longest time - so long, too long, long enough for Eliot to think that Quentin _hadn't _believed him, hadn't recognized Eliot beneath the Monster, and that his choice of words hadn't mattered in the slightest - he just waited, and regretted, and hoped only to regret it.

Wait. Regret. Hope - regret. Picture that look on Quentin's face. Wonder if the wait would ever end.

And when it did - when it does - he's not ready.

There's no door, this time. Nothing for him to step through, no physical object ready and willing to represent the mask that he's attempting to drop, the vocal filter that he needs to remove. Last time, Eliot had looked at that door, its familiar grooves and scuffs just another punch to the gut - he'd walked up to it and stepped through it, all the while trying to mentally prepare, and still he'd messed up. This time, he doesn't even have that.

The cottage in his mind goes dark, fading out of existence, and then he's somewhere else - standing, head spinning, legs weak, balance already half-lost. He feels like he has the worst hangover of his life, like he's forgotten how to operate half of his muscles. His surroundings seem to materialize around him, the darkness at the edges of his vision chased away by the too-bright light - there are people all around, watching him, waiting; there's a heavy suspense in the air, a distinct atmosphere that he doesn't try to decipher.

People, sounds, sudden autonomy that feels so strangely foreign now - he can't process it all, so he doesn't try to. In the rush of sensations, the abrupt shock of the change, there's somehow a clear image in his mind - there's something he needs to do. A face he desperately needs to find.

A glance around leaves his head spinning - and it's worth it, because nearly everyone is there, staring at him like they're not sure who they're looking at - all alive, despite everything. His gaze slides from one person to the next, wanting to linger and wonder - the questions that had been building up for what seemed like an eternity flit through his mind, each one crowded out by the next. There's Josh, frowning and alarmed - and Kady, standing there next to Penny, eyes wide - and Julia, hands outstretched, expectant and hopeful - and Margo -

Margo - _Margo_. He wants Margo - he wants to wrap himself up in her and forget everything else and just pretend that they're fine, that everything's fine, because they're both so good at that - because he could ask her questions all day and she'd navigate around them just as easily as he would - because he knows her, and she knows him, and the comfort that the two of them can find in one another's arms is unlike anything else. But - not yet - because - there, furthest away, slowly taking an uncertain half-step forward, is -

Quentin.

Quentin, standing there carefully, still so clearly on guard - his forehead is creased, brows drawn together, eyes sharp with caution but brimming with so much more. Hope and dread and frustration and love - they all exist in perfect balance at one moment, in chaotic conflict at the next. Quentin looks like he wants to run away - like he wants to rush closer - like he's terrified of doing either one, fully aware of the pain that's surely waiting for him.

_Quentin. _

And suddenly, Eliot is frozen. Incapacitated, utterly and completely; he isn't prepared for this, isn't ready to mess this up again. He'd spent an immeasurable amount of time locked in his own head, thinking about _last time_, about the words he'd said, about the look on Quentin's face - how he'd looked so sad, so pained, so suddenly hopeful and terrified and hesitant and afraid. _That _look, the one that Quentin is wearing now, right in front of him. Eliot spent forever remembering it and hating it - wishing he could've changed it - wishing that he'd done _anything _to try and fix things. To fix _them_. To tell Quentin exactly what his biggest regret really was.

Last time proved that he couldn't keep running away from the things that scared him.

_Everything _after remembering the mosaic - after that conversation - proved that.

He can't keep running away from this. He _won't_. He knows he'd never be able to live with another regret like that. He can't mess this up again - can't let his own words betray him, not in a moment like this. He can't let himself run away again.

_If I ever get out of here, Q... know that if I'm braver, it's 'cause I learned it from you._

No words come to him. Quentin's still staring at him, eyes wide and unsure, and Eliot can feel the weight of them pulling him forward, dragging his heavy limbs along like an ocean tide; his legs still feel weak, but they move anyway, slow at first but then faster, faster. Around him, the others are whispering, asking a question, something - he doesn't care, doesn't hear, doesn't stop. There's one thing he needs to do, one wrong he needs to right, and there will never be a better time than now - because it's right now that Quentin still has that _look _on his face. Heartbroken, confused, lost. The look that Eliot left there.

The look that he knows he can fix.

So he doesn't slow, and his eyes lock onto Quentin's as he tries to convey some of the everything that he wants to apologize for. There are no words, no coherent thoughts; just a burning need to finally just lay all his cards out on the table. Every step is just a handful of seconds - just another shaky breath, trying to keep pace with his thundering heart - and each second has a new eternity hidden within, offering up plenty of time for him to second-guess himself and turn back before it's too late - but he keeps moving forward, forward and closer until Quentin's eyes light up with a hope that hasn't been there in far too long.

"Eliot - " Quentin breathes his name, voice shaking, but not out of fear or uncertainty, this time - the corners of his lips are lifting upwards, his eyes widening. He still hasn't moved an inch, but he doesn't need to -

-because Eliot is still moving closer, close enough to touch, then close enough that he doesn't have to try not to - close enough that his hands do what they want, slipping past Quentin's jaw, fingers tracing along his skin as they find their way to rest at a familiar spot at the back of Quentin's neck. He only pauses for a second - just long enough for his breath to stutter, for their noses to brush together - and then it's too long, and there's a physical ache in his chest, something stabbing and suffocating, desperate for their lips to just touch already -

And then they do - they are - and there's a heat racing up his body, trying to chase out the chills and match the warmth of Quentin's lips. They're soft and still, at first - for a fraction of one endless second, Quentin is motionless, lips parted but unreceptive, and it's almost enough to make Eliot think to stop. Almost, but there's that heat too, that fire that's spreading outwards from his chest, searing down to his fingertips - and his hands know to pull Quentin closer, closer still as he deepens the kiss.

It's not seductive or lustful, but there's a desperate need to it; just a message, an answer, a promise. Eliot wants to pour everything into it, to somehow let the nonexistent space between their skin be the medium to convey every single thought running through his head right now. There's so much to say - to apologize for - and when Quentin kisses him back, finally, pressing closer against Eliot, now - there's so much more. He feels Quentin's hand tremble against his neck, his fingers drawing burning lines on Eliot's skin before he takes hold; their lips crash against one another, open-mouthed, rushed - finally tasting each other again, finally honest and wholehearted and true. There's no space left between them, and yet it's not enough; there's so much to say, so much that Eliot wants to promise and promise over and over again, a million times if that's what it takes - and in every infinite, infinitesimal second that they spend like this, locked together, it feels like they're promising each other the same thing.

It's not that long of a kiss, but when they break apart, Eliot takes a gasp of a breath like they'd been kissing for hours; he's shaking, legs weaker than ever, but he's never felt better - the ache in his chest, in his very bones is still there, but it's a good ache now, the kind that makes him want more and more. Quentin looks up at him, lips still parted, eyebrows pinched together in a question - his eyes are doing that thing, sparkling and spilling over with emotion, all of them looking too painful to be good but too full of love to be bad -

Eliot licks his lips, takes another breath, lets a hand fall forward to grip loosely at Quentin's sleeve. There's a question that needs to be answered, now, and he's not going to fuck it up.

"I just... wanted to make sure that you knew," he says, the words slow, each syllable trembling but determined. The question in Quentin's eyes remains, burning, more desperate than ever. "That I'm an idiot - and sometimes I say really stupid things that I don't mean - and I'm sorry."

His fingers twist tighter into Quentin's sleeve, his skin again wanting to be closer to him, to touch - but not yet, because there are words that need to be said. Quentin's staring at him, biting his lip, and the hope in his eyes is brighter than ever, only dimmed by the faintest glimmer of fear - the slightest trace of forced hesitance. That _look - _the remnants of it. Eliot never wanted to see that look on Quentin's face again.

"I was so, _so_ wrong, before," says Eliot, and the words tumble from his mouth unrestrained. "I love you."

And he'd said those words to Quentin before, but never with so much meaning in the spaces between them; never with so much emotion behind them. Never before had he said them so truthfully, so trustingly, so completely and utterly unafraid.

A smile spreads across Quentin's face like sunlight, lighting up his eyes and chasing away all the last dregs of doubt. And _that_, Eliot thinks as he laughs, grinning, leaning in to kiss Quentin again - _that_ is the look that he wants to see on Quentin's face, every day, for the rest of his life.


End file.
